Mycroft's Confessions
by ConsultingDetective221B
Summary: A look into Mycroft's records of his own life, this story illuminates some of his more indecorous encounters with his younger brother.
1. First Time

When I was younger, while Sherlock was still in school, our parents would get us together for Christmas, then have me stay through Sherlock's birthday and a few days after. It started when Sherlock was 17. I hadn't seen him since he grew into himself, and boy did he. I'd arrived at Mummy's on Christmas Eve and settled into my room. Sherlock, I was told, was in the study. I went to greet him and was surprised by what I saw. He'd become a fine, handsome young man over the course of the year I'd been gone. He was lean and dressed more sharply than I was used to, but still just sloppy enough to be mysterious... Sorry. I'm fawning. Back to the point. That night, I had a very explicit dream about my little brother. And I do mean VERY explicit. I'd been going through a phase where my nose bled easily anyway (thanks to a few injuries), so I wasn't surprised when I woke up to a red pillow. Sherlock, however, was rather more concerned. He'd come to ask if he could borrow my old textbook for my annotations, but instead found me bleeding all over myself. As soon as he realized what he was seeing, he rushed over to me, brushing my hair from my face and helping me sit up so the blood wouldn't drain down my throat. This, of course, did not help the more southern situation I was having, which he thankfully hadn't yet noticed. Then he shouted for our parents, despite my pleads that I was okay. He kept insisting I needed help and I snapped. "Not NOW, Sherlock! Couldn't you just wait five minutes?!" I was sorry as soon as I'd said it. It took him a moment, but he finally realized what I meant. He helped bunch up the blankets to mask the issue, which only made it worse. At least our parents wouldn't be able to tell. A few seconds later, mummy came flying into my room. Of course, she was almost as worried as Sherlock had been, but we were able to convince her I was fine. The bleeding had nearly stopped already anyway. She told us to call her if we needed her, then left. Sherlock was curious about what had aroused me so much, but actually dropped the subject when I asked. I didn't realize he'd been testing me and would continue to do so until he figured it out on New Years Day. He pulled me aside and asked if he was the subject of my erotic dream, and I confirmed it. He nodded and left me alone for the rest of the day. The next week was torture. He'd brush up against me if he had to pass me anywhere. He barely wore clothes at all and I could tell he'd been shaping up. Most of the time, he ran around in nothing but his pyjama bottoms unless instructed otherwise by our parents or we were to be going out. When we went out, he made sure to wear things that flattered his figure. Torture. I tried to put it out of my mind and ignore him, but I simply couldn't. Then it happened. It was the night of January 7th. His birthday had been the day before. Our parents were asleep, and I was halfway there myself when he slipped silently into my room. I opened my eyes and there he was: 18 years old, drop dead gorgeous, and completely unclothed. He whispered to me to scoot over. I don't know what possessed me to listen. I made room for him in my bed, possibly out of habit from when he was little and had nightmares. This, however, was entirely different. He crawled in beneath the covers, pressing himself against me. I wrapped my arms around him and he pressed his lips to mine. I felt his hands trace down my sides and push down my pyjamas, exposing me. The rest is mostly a blur. I just know I ended up as naked as he was, our bodies bare and entwined as we made out off and on for hours, hands wandering, but never settling on one place. Dawn was breaking when he finally pulled himself away. "I'll leave you to yourself," he said. "Mummy will be up in an hour. I doubt it'll take you so long." Then, he crawled out of my bed and went back to his own room. That was the first time I would ever see my little brother fully erect. I'm disappointed to admit it took less than three minutes for me to release the physical tension. Five to reach completion a second time.


	2. Second Time

Sherlock was in his early twenties, as I wasn't yet thirty, but was closer to it than I wanted to be. I don't remember precisely how old we were. It wasn't the first time my little brother had overdosed, nor would it be the last, but it was certainly the worst. I'd just gotten back from business in Korea, and decided to check in on my baby brother before I went home. He'd moved out from under our parents and had a dingy flat on Montague Street. Not the best of locations, but it suited him at the time. I unlocked the door and entered the flat to find him sprawled face down on the floor in a pool of urine and vomit. My heart stopped. I dropped my suitcase and ran to him. His pulse was weak and his breathing shallow. I grabbed the phone and called for an ambulance. I got him upright and was able to get him to open his eyes briefly before he fell unconscious again in my arms. I didn't notice the tears streaming down my face until the medics got there and asked if I was alright. I told them who I was and that I would be going with him. I pried the list from his near-lifeless fingers and copied it into my notebook before handing it over so they'd know what he'd taken. I grabbed my bags as they loaded him into the ambulance before getting in myself. I don't think the tears stopped until I got the news that he'd live after having been at the hospital for several hours and I was allowed to see him. I called work and told them I wouldn't be in for a while and would be working from home until further notice. I spent every moment with Sherlock at the hospital. The only time we were apart was when he was taken for tests and I couldn't be in the room. He was in a coma for what felt like a year (though, in reality, it was probably no more than three days), so for what felt like a year, I didn't go home. After he awoke, I finally felt like I could breathe again. His first words were "does mummy know?" I shook my head and told him "Almost." We'd come to an agreement that if he were ever to OD, our mother wasn't to be notified unless he was sure to die or dead already. She didn't need anything else worrying her and it was easier on both of us if she never knew. When he was finally allowed to leave, I had to sign all sorts of papers which basically made me his legal guardian and said he wasn't to be left alone until he'd finished going through withdrawal. Lord knows I wasn't going to leave him alone... So, he was released, and I took him to my home, sending some of my people to his to clean it out. It seemed like ages that he was unwell. He shook constantly. He had fevers through the roof. He would randomly grow dangerously near hypothermia. He couldn't keep anything down. He had violent mood swings. He even tried to commit suicide once. I quickly found out that his typical "drug use" had been actual addiction this time. Apparently, he'd started using shortly after I'd left the country and hadn't stopped until I got back, hence the intensity of his symptoms. It was a long and difficult process, but I was there for him and cared for him until he pulled through. He had been eating properly and maintaining a normal temperature for three days. The tremors were only in his hands. The mood swings had died down. He was himself. He elected to stay with me until he'd fully regained his strength for his own safety, and pushed himself to do so quickly as he could. I decided it was safe to return to work. One day, I came home and had the urge to check on him. He was laying in bed, clutching his pillow and crying. I rushed over and sat down beside him, rubbing his back and telling him he was okay; I was there. He sat up and looked at me, true fear painted in his eyes. "You were dead, Mycroft. I dreamt you were dead. I'm so sorry I put you through that." He'd taken a nap and had a nightmare while I was away. "Feeling is not an advantage, Sherlock," I said as I cradled him in my arms. It was all I could think to say. I wasn't quite ready to forgive him yet, and now we both knew how much he'd hurt me. I pressed my lips into his thick curls and held him until he stopped crying. Then, he pulled himself away to look at me. His eyes seemed to gloss over. He leaned in, and the next thing I knew, he was kissing me and unbuttoning his shirt. I didn't know what to do, so I pulled back. "It's okay," he told me. "I won't tell if you won't. I know you want to. I do, too. No one will find out." I hesitated a moment before leaning in and kissing him passionately. The little bugger had scared me half to death, and this would help me get it out of my system and forgive him simultaneously. He untied my tie and got me out of my shirt. We each removed our own trousers and pants. He lowered himself back on the bed, and I got on top of him. Thank god there was a bottle of lotion in the side-table drawer. He thought of it a split second before I did, and got it out and gave it to me. I kissed him deeply as I applied it to my fingers, inserting them one at a time. His moans sent chills down my spine. I held his leg aside and pushed my erection into him. God, I'd never felt anything so heavenly sinful in my life... To move in him was ecstasy. To hear the sound of his euphoric voice was to hear choirs of angels. To feel his skin on mine was to touch seventh heaven. He was simply intoxicating. To this day, I don't know how we lasted for as long as we did, but I'll be damned if I didn't enjoy every moment. I was almost melancholic for a moment once we'd finished, but, ultimately, I was too enraptured to care. I spent that night with him; both of us slept naked in his bed. After we dressed in the morning, we acted as though nothing had happened. He moved back into his flat, and life moved on.


	3. Third Time

It was Christmas again. Sherlock was about to turn 26; I was 32. Ever since Sherlock had moved out and my position in the government had become more influential, we had scrapped the old tradition of spending two consecutive weeks cooped up in our childhood home. We would visit our parents on Christmas Eve and stay until Boxing Day. That was it. This year, however, Mummy had gotten wind that Sherlock and I hadn't spoken to each other for several months (Don't ask me why. Sherlock was being petulant over an exceedingly trifling matter, so I let him stew about it.), and had decided we needed to spend time together to get past our differences. Sherlock couldn't find a case and the government was actually maintaining itself for a change, so neither of us had any excuse not to stay. We agreed to visit for the same duration we had done during Sherlock's adolescence. The first week we stayed as far apart as possible, barely speaking. The next couple of days, my little brother was starting to come around. He managed a few conversations with me here and there and would actually make eye contact. When his birthday rolled closer, he began acting strange. He smirked more than he usually did. He seemed to have a higher bounce to his step. He would intentionally brush against me as he did 8 years before. He was even so bold as to allude to our previous relations in front of our parents. Nothing too obvious, of course. Just a random euphemism inserted in a reply to a question. It was subtle enough that Dad and Mummy never caught on, but I knew what he meant all too well. The night of January 5th, I couldn't sleep. I was bored. The lack of work was getting to me. I stared blankly at the ceiling for an hour. I just couldn't drift off. I knew when I could expect Mummy to get up, so I set my alarm for ten minutes before then, and stripped off my clothes. Maybe being more comfortable would help. It didn't. I checked the clock. 12.02. Damn. 'Well, happy birthday, Sherlock,' I thought to myself. Why couldn't I sleep? I nearly jumped out of my skin when my door creaked open. It was Sherlock, wearing his pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt. He shut the door quietly behind him and stripped, letting his clothes fall softly to the floor. Without a word, he crawled in bed beside me. I didn't even realise I'd moved over for him. I was expecting him to make a comment about me already being prepared for him, but he never did. He just pulled me close and kissed me. I kissed him back more passionately than I intended, but I didn't care and he didn't seem to mind either. Our bodies pressed together and our lips did the same. As we became aroused, he kissed along my jaw to nibble at my ear, then down my neck, along my collar bone (leaving a mark just below it), down my chest, my stomach, my thigh. He moved back up, but only slightly. He took the tip of my erection in his mouth, sucking it and teasing it with his tongue. Then, he started bobbing his head, taking more of me in with each repetition. Soon enough, he managed to fit my full length. He was excellent. It felt amazing. As he moved his head, I had to keep myself from moaning too loudly. Lord knows what disasters would ensue should our parents discover what we were doing. As if the sensation wasn't pleasurable enough, I chose to glance at him. Not only did he return the gaze with the most devilish, ravenous, seductive look I'd ever seen, but he'd also begun stroking himself. He was the epitome of all things sensual. I couldn't restrain my volume. I let out a moan louder than I could have anticipated. Sherlock took his free hand and moved it to my mouth so I didn't have to try so hard to silence myself; I could just enjoy it. It wasn't long before he finished me off. I had to bite his hand to minimize the risk of waking our parents. He let go of himself and we switched positions. He tasted as good as he felt. He was far better at quieting himself than I was, but I could tell he enjoyed himself just as much. After he came, we realized just how much damage I'd done to his hand. We pulled on our pyjama bottoms and rushed to the bathroom before he had the chance to bleed on my sheets. I bandaged him up and we returned to my room. To this day, our mother still believes he'd managed to stab himself with a nail that had fallen on the windowsill. Once back to my room, we stripped again, snuggled up in my bed, and fell asleep within seconds. We both slept better that night than we had in a long time. When my alarm rang in the morning, we put on our pyjamas and Sherlock rushed silently back to his room. Our parents never knew he was even gone.


	4. Fourth Time

Sherlock had just turned 29 three weeks prior and had found himself without lodgings due to a rather heated altercation with his landlord the week after his birthday. He still hung about the place for the sake of cases and no one knew he'd been kicked out until I found him sleeping on a park bench the night of the 26th. Naturally, I took him under my wing once again until he could find a place and get back on his feet. After a long discussion the next morning, we came to the agreement that for his own health and safety, he would remain with me until he could find someone with whom he connected that would agree to be his flat mate. Once a flat mate was found, he was to contact me with the address of any flat in London and the cost of said abode, which I would cover entirely. He was certain he would be living with me for the rest of his life, but you know that isn't true. He hadn't made much of an effort at all in the next 24 hours, and with part of our agreement being he start his search immediately, we ended up arguing over it. We hadn't fought like this in quite some time. I was worried for him and frustrated by his lackadaisical attitude toward the matter, and he was angry with me for being angry with him. We'd been shouting for over an hour and I honestly don't remember when we managed to migrate to my bedroom, but we migrated nonetheless. Still shouting at each other, he started to strip, and I found myself unbuttoning my shirt. Our words flew like daggers and our clothes fell like autumn leaves, one article after another. The next thing I knew, he was kissing me with a fierce passion and pushed me down on the bed. I got comfortable and laid back. Neither of us realised we'd stopped shouting as our passion phased to a much more physical form. He put a hand to my throat and straddled me, leaning down to kiss me again as he pressed gently on my windpipe. I knew in that moment he had all the power to kill me and all the knowledge to get away with it, but I also knew that he wouldn't really try. He was just having fun toying with the idea, and for some ungodly reason it turned me on. I ran one hand through his hair and the other up his thigh, fingers tugging at hair and nails digging at flesh. I was becoming lightheaded from the decrease in oxygen, and he knew. I could feel him counting in his mind, tracking how long I had been cut off. My vision started to turn dark and he let go of my throat. I gasped a moan and he got that evil seductive grin I'd come to know too well. I felt him grab my erection and slowly lower himself onto it, tilting his head back and releasing a drawn out moan as he did. I moaned with him as he started to move- up and down, up and down, up and down. How could such a repetitive motion feel so damn good? I massaged his thighs and watched him as he reached down to further pleasure himself. Dear God, he was sexy. Little did I know, he was about to become impossibly more alluring. Completely caught up in the moment, he began to rotate his hips. All those years of dancing lessons he'd taken as a child had come to fruition in the most sinful and sultry of ways. I found myself making a mental note to somehow find a way to subtly thank mummy for making him focus on Latin and Ballroom dance. He moaned hard as he gyrated on me uncontrollably, bringing his free hand to his head and pushing it through his hair. To this day, I believe that in that moment he'd forgotten my existence and the existence of everything but the ecstasy he was causing himself and I honestly didn't mind it one bit. To see my brother experiencing such a reaction and to feel him hot and tight around me was more than enough to bring me to completion with him when the moment struck. I'll never get that image of him from my mind, nor, I'll admit, do I particularly want to. Once we'd finished, we kissed for the longest time, and he promised he'd be out of my hair in no time. The next day, I received a text with the amount of money his new flat was going to cost and the address "221B Baker Street, W1" along with his analysis of the man he was to move in with. I can't begin to deny I was jealous enough of this injured army doctor to kidnap him and try to scare him off. To what is now my somewhat melancholic delight, my efforts failed miserably and actually helped convince him to accept my brother's offer. 


End file.
